


The Hmmmmpf of Rodney McKay

by aesc, dogeared, sheafrotherdon, Siria



Series: Nantucket AU [45]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-13
Updated: 2008-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:18:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney wakes up grumpy. It happens from time to time – a wave of disgruntlement that defies the logic of his warm bed, his shared home, the disheveled heap of John Sheppard beside him. Sometimes, when the grumps come to town, there's nothing to do but squint at the cold gray February morning that's mocking him from beyond the windows and huff in derision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hmmmmpf of Rodney McKay

Rodney wakes up grumpy. It happens from time to time – a wave of disgruntlement that defies the logic of his warm bed, his shared home, the disheveled heap of John Sheppard beside him. Sometimes, when the grumps come to town, there's nothing to do but squint at the cold gray February morning that's mocking him from beyond the windows and huff in derision.

"Mmmmmph," he says to himself, and tugs the duvet a little higher up to beneath his chin.

"Whzzat?" The question's a sleepy breath across Rodney's neck, as sprawled-out and lazy as John's haphazard tangle of arms and legs. John tugs on the duvet.

Rodney tugs back. "Stoppit," he mumbles, wriggling further down under the covers until only his nose is peeking out. "Hmmmmph."

John rolls closer, inviting Rodney's reluctant body to relax back into him. Rodney curls in on himself, which makes John snort – an air of fond, warm exasperation blown against Rodney's shoulder.

"G'morning to you, too," John says.

Rodney feels like he can't quite trust himself to say something civil, much less kind, back to John quite yet, gripped by the unreasonable grouchiness that's pulling down the corners of his mouth. He curls up tighter instead and focuses on giant cups of hot coffee and fresh Portuguese rolls and whether they'd make it worth getting out of bed. He calculates probabilities in his head and thinks the answer is no: Coffee is coffee, but when he cracks open one eye, even the distance from the bed to the door of their room is wide and unwelcoming. He's warm here, tangled up in rumpled sheets, content to keep the world at bay, and if John doesn't stop _breathing down the back of his neck_, waiting for something, Rodney will be forced to use _words_. "What?"

"You," John drawls, vowels slip-shod and comfortable, grazing effortlessly beneath Rodney's skin, "are a grump." And he slides his hand over Rodney's hip, up under his threadbare t-shirt, splays his fingers against Rodney's belly.

"Hmmmmph," Rodney says again, but he's not sure if he's saying it in protest or agreement. John's hand feels really, really good, pressed firm and centered over his navel, the pads of his fingers five separate points of heat. _Dammit_, Rodney thinks, latching onto hostility with desperation. He glowers narrowly out the window and tenses against the carelessness John's hand wants to smooth into him.

But John's having none of it – hooks his chin over Rodney's shoulder to make him shiver from the scrape of stubble, presses his hand even more firmly to Rodney's belly, like he's trying to hold the vibrations in. "Rodney," John says, "Why are you being a grump?" He's drawing out his words, making a low, lilting sing-song of his voice. Rodney can feel his dick twitch at that – remembering the other uses to which John can turn that particular tone of voice – and he curses Pavlov and all his soft science kindred.

He tries to jerk his body back away from John's hand, but that only has him nestling his ass closer to the warm curve of John's hips, and John's greeting the morning as he always seems to, wood at the ready, which just makes Rodney harden himself and hmmph again. "Insufferable," he mumbles, trying to twist his head to bury his face in the pillows.

"I know."

John's voice is far too placid for someone who 1) is naked, and 2) has his cock pressed against Rodney's ass. John's hand is still stroking his belly, thighs shifting against the backs of Rodney's own, and oh God, _why_? "_Why_ are you always like this?" Rodney asks. He means for it to sound condescending and superior, only it comes out sounding an awful lot like John does when he whines, and Rodney is not surprised one whit when John answers, with a merry little thrust of his hips, "Because you like it?"

"Do not," Rodney says, but he's vaguely aware that the answering helpless shift of his own hips is undermining his argument. "Do _not_," he repeats when he hears John laugh, a rusty chuckle that Rodney can feel reverberate through his own rib cage.

John curves his fingers slightly, scratches a path very gently through the hair below Rodney's navel. "Okay, buddy," he says lightly, sounding maddeningly insincere, and he hooks a finger inside the elastic of Rodney's boxers, scratches a nail back and forth against warm skin. Rodney's breath hitches, almost all his attention zeroing in on the thin, sharp zigzag of John's finger. All the rest of it goes to registering the miles of ardent flesh pressed all along his back, and okay, _fine_, he decides as he shifts back, if he must, he must. "Fine!" he says out loud. "Have at it. Go ahead and do whatever it is you feel you need to do."

John leans in and breathes hotly, right into Rodney's ear, "Oh, I will."

Rodney absolutely does not whimper.

Rodney expects John to say something else, to tell him what he's going to do next – John might never be as talkative as Rodney in bed, but what words he tends to use, he uses well, directions and pleas and chants of Rodney's name – but this time he says nothing at all. His breathing is heavy as he simply pushes down Rodney's boxers – slowly, slowly – to tangle around his thighs.

Rodney flexes the muscles in his ass without thinking, realizes his breathing has quickened in direct response to John's irritating silence, and when all John does is scratch his nails softly through the coarse hair at the top Rodney's legs, Rodney chokes off a noise of frustration. The (small) part of him that isn't incoherent with insanity-inducing, frustrated lust takes a moment to resent how John can do this to him, can take directionless annoyance and turn it into wanting with nothing more than a few well-placed touches. He'd call John on it – he so would – but the soft rustle of sheets, the hot shift of John's body and the hypnotic pace of his fingers, it's John utterly absorbed in something, in _him_, and "more," Rodney whispers. He's not sure if John acts in response or just because he feels like it, but he bends his head to Rodney's neck, nuzzles and nibbles and licks, and it's wet, and it's ticklish, and it's zinging straight to Rodney's dick and driving him a little crazy.

Outside, the wind must be picking up: the windowpane rattles slightly in its frame, and the bedroom door creaks. Rodney's body feels like it's caught up in it, too, because John's touch against his skin is light and glancing, but it's enough to push Rodney someplace new. When John ducks his head to scrape his stubble against the thin skin stretched over Rodney's shoulder blade, to nip lightly at the flat wing of it, Rodney shudders, and one hand flies back to grab John's hip, pull him closer. Then – "Okay, that's _it_," he says, because it's suddenly all too ridiculous, the grumpiness still simmering behind his ribs; the erection that's scratching against the sheets; how imperfectly, brilliantly, incandescently hot his boyfriend is, and he's flailing, turning over, shoving John flat on his back and kicking off his own boxer shorts, throwing aside his t-shirt, straddling John's hips and letting all the cold air in the world in beneath their duvet while he kisses John as hard as he can – not an easy feat considering John's grinning broadly, his breathing a rumble of fond affection in Rodney's ears.

He sighs as John licks at him, a _fine, we'll do it your way_ sigh and a _but you do realize I'm only doing this to humor you_ sigh. And if there's something in it like contentment or encouragement, well . . . well, then there _is_, contentment with John's stupid laugh and the hands on his face, his sides, and encouragement because he's begging, in spite of himself, "Please, don't stop." He kisses into John's laughing mouth, kisses in and in and in, like maybe he'll find good humor in some hot corner of it, while John, for his part, opens wide, lets Rodney take what he needs, and the mirth in his eyes shifts to something more subtle and complicated and a whole lot warmer than the world outside their bed.

They kiss and kiss, and then suddenly John tilts his head back, lets Rodney in deep and wraps one big hand around the nape of Rodney's neck, strokes at the skin there with his thumb, rubbing the hair against the grain in a way he _knows_ makes Rodney crazy. John's mouth is hot and wet and made for the best kinds of things; when he pulls away, Rodney whimpers and tries to get closer, but John checks him with a finger against his lips. "Uh uh," John says, "What say we try this again? G'morning, Rodney." He accompanies his words with a hitch of his hips, rubbing his cock against Rodney's in a very friendly greeting.

Rodney frowns at him and whines. "C'monnnn," he mumbles, thrusting gently.

John shakes his head. "G'_morning_, Rodney."

Rodney sighs from the very depths of his soul, lets his head fall forward onto John's shoulder and rests there a second. "G'morning," he mumbles.

"What was that?" John says, and it's obvious from the tone of his voice that he's grinning. "Couldn't quite hear you."

"I said, good _morning_," Rodney repeats, lifting his head and pursing his lips. "You utter bastard. Utter, utter disheveled bastard who . . ." He leans down and sniffs at John's armpit. "You're not even stinky. What is that? How can you not stink? Are you like, one of those saints who, you know, smells of flowers and never decays? Are you drinking embalming fluid with your coffee? Is there some quality of mmmmmph," and he has to shut up then because John's kissing him, rolling him over and laughing into his mouth again.

"_God_," John manages, pinning Rodney's hands to the bed. "Seriously, McKay."

"Seriously what, _Sheppard_?" Rodney demands. He glares up at John, who grins down at him, and shifts against the weight pressing his hands into the mattress. "It isn't natural."

John rolls his eyes, which means he wants to sidestep the argument because he has no comeback and Rodney would so call him on it – he _so_ would – but John's bending low, nosing at Rodney's chest, licking him, breathing him in, and that's kind of unexpectedly hot.

"I smell," he says feebly.

"'S long as it isn't embalming fluid," John says, and bites his right nipple.

Rodney jerks and gasps, feels his cock leave a sticky smear on John's hairy belly and suddenly wants more, wants John to work up a sweat, wants him to smell the way he does when he comes in from a summer run. "You should be sweaty," he offers vaguely, cupping John's ass in both his hands, pulling him closer so that he can grind up against him, good, good, _better_. He licks at John's throat, stubble sharp under his tongue, and relishes the shiver that earns him.

"Thought you didn't want me to smell?" John says, his voice unsteady.

Rodney sucks a bright, spit-shiny hickey just above John's collarbone, a hickey that makes John twitch and whimper. "I said you _didn't_ stink much, not that you _shouldn't_," he corrects, fingers dancing between John's ass cheeks.

"Thanks for the clarification," John says, and Rodney decides it's really very good, the glow of satisfaction that comes with hearing John's breath break and stutter around the words. It's almost as good as John's tight, muscled ass under his hands, the quiver and soft groan Rodney can pull from touching him there. When Rodney dips his fingers between again, brushes over John's hole, John rolls against him, a smooth wave undulating and breaking against Rodney's body, pulling at something inside Rodney's chest, a tidal force. It makes him feel suddenly gentle. "S'okay," he says.

"Rodney," John mumbles. He's forcing his words out now through gritted teeth, as if they're being pulled out of him by Rodney's touch, an early morning ebb and flow of vowels and nonsense words; as if he's bracing himself against the pleasure he knows Rodney's going to call up in his body. "Lube," he says, "where," pushing back against Rodney's fingers.

"Um – side. Side – table." And just like that, Rodney's mouth goes completely dry, because it doesn't matter how many times they do this, it's never going to stop shocking him, the fact that he gets to sleep with this man, that John _wants_ him, and god, there's a fire-bright surge of lust burning him up from the inside out, and he hopes John has the coordination to get the damn stuff off the table, because he's not sure of his own name anymore. He hears one heavy thing hit the floor and something else clattering messily down to join it, takes a moment to trace the fine weave of tendon under John's neck as he stretches to keep looking. "Come _on_," Rodney whines, and "Coming, coming," John says, still hunting, shifting, and _any day now_, Rodney thinks.

Then John's back with him, flipping the cap open with clumsy fingers and squeezing almost half the bottle into Rodney's waiting palm. Rodney scrunches up his nose, but the way John's practically panting, the way his face is hungry and open and just this side of desperate curtails any ideas he has about complaining. "Come on," he says again, quietly this time, tugging John closer as best he can with his other hand, "c'mere, c'mere, you want to do it like this?"

"Yes," John says, "Yeah, Rodney," squirming into Rodney's touch, "just, your fingers – please." His voice has gone breathless, truthful, and Rodney can never deny him anything when he's like that; he slicks his fingers messily and works two into John while he kisses him, opening him up hard and fast the way he knows John likes it. John makes little noises against his mouth, sounds that are somewhere between a curse and a groan, and Rodney blinks against the sharp, blinding affection he feels in that second, crashing over him as John swears and shifts, pulls off Rodney's fingers and smears lube on Rodney's cock, settles himself over him and – "Oh, god," Rodney swears fervently as John lowers himself, inch by inch, down into Rodney's lap.

He's pretty sure he's going to die – from the breath choked off in his chest, or the mind-breaking feeling of John's body closing hot and tight around his cock, the slick insides of his thighs riding Rodney's hips. Whatever light the morning offers gathers in the sweat lining John's shoulders, in the hazy, transfixed brilliance of his eyes locked onto Rodney's. "Don't move," Rodney begs, because he's _thisclose_ to being gone, to this being over, and it's only John's crushing grip on his hands holding him back. He tests the waters, thrusts up just a little, and John groans and tenses and mutters, low and deep, "_god_." Rodney wrestles a hand free so that he can wrap it around John's cock, watches him throw his head back, something like joy caught in his own throat.

Rodney bucks up again, and John freezes above him for a moment. Then a shudder rolls through him, and his head drops. "I can't," he says, "I _can't_, I have to – " and he's moving again, all the power he ordinarily keeps coiled up and waiting in long, lean muscles now unleashed. He's fucking himself down onto Rodney's cock, over and over, keeping time to some fierce internal rhythm at which Rodney can only guess, and Rodney reaches up with his other free hand, touches John's chin, asks the only way he knows how to be the object of John's gaze. John ducks his head, nudges his cheek into Rodney's palm and rests his face there, as if he has all the time in the world to watch Rodney's expression; as if he's not rolling his hips, flexing the muscles in his belly and thighs, panting heavily, a bead of sweat running over his sternum, down toward his cock.

"Okay," Rodney says, licking his lips, hypnotized by the run-fall of sweat, the cadence of John's hips and the heat of his body. "Okay, okay, c'mon," as he works John's cock and falters ungraceful touches across his cheek, "c'mon." Rodney can't help but feel that he's holding something unfathomably precious in the palm of his hand – John's scratchy cheek, his trust, a piece of John's heart, and he tightens his grip, lets John fuck into his fist, says, "Go for it, I want to see you," and hopes John knows he also means, _you're amazing._

"God, just – " John stills for a moment, shifts the particular angle of his hips so that Rodney can slide deeper, so that he can fuck harder into the slick heat of Rodney's hand. When he starts to move again, in swift, shallow thrusts, he clenches hard around Rodney on the downbeat, and Rodney knows just how good that has to feel – riding the edge of that burn and wanting more, working yourself tighter and tighter because it brings you higher, closer – and when Rodney starts to meet him in the syncopated rhythm he knows John loves, John hisses and slurs and says "Rodney, this, _us_", as if he's trying to answer, as if he's trying to say, _better together_.

Rodney tightens his grip, watches as John shudders, a ripple that works up from his hips to his shoulders, his head dropping forward. "Yeah," Rodney manages, shoving gracelessly upward into the heat of John's body, "yeah, c'mon," and then _he's_ coming, spine trying to arch, head thrown back, hips jerking without a semblance of rhythm, and his hoarse relief is a counterpoint to John's, to the spill of John over his fingers, onto his chest, a marking, a claiming, a mutual sense of territory. He's shaking, Rodney thinks dimly, staring at the long line of John's arm, the flow of it down and down to where his hand is locked around Rodney's. They're both shaking, like they've chased each other a mile through deep sand. His heart seems like it can't decide whether to gallop along at twice its already-too-fast pace or, when John gazes blurrily down at him, to slide to a stop, to freeze mid-beat.

John slumps to the side, flops so that his sweaty forehead's propped on Rodney's shoulder and lays a proprietary hand on Rodney's belly; lies there with his eyes closed and a grin that's blown way past goofy on his face. It's quiet enough that Rodney can hear the drip-drip-drip of something melting outside, and in another couple of minutes, the post-coital glow's going to turn cold and sticky and itchy. Rodney waits, and waits some more, and shrugs his shoulder against John's unmoving head, and, when he can't stand it any more, blurts out, "Well? Don't you want to know whether I'm still grumpy?"

"Hmmpfh," John says, and huffs out a warm breath against Rodney's shoulder. "R'ney, wha's it?"

Rodney had forgotten this one important fact: John's post-coital glow always burns bright enough to take his brain offline for a good ten minutes, makes his words slur, and when he moves, he's slow and too deliberate, rubbing up against Rodney like an oversized cat. Which, well, it's not like Rodney's objecting to it or anything – who in their right mind would, with John stroking his hipbone with one callused thumb? – but he asked a question, dammit, so he pokes John in the side.

"I _said_, don't you want to know if I'm still grumpy?"

John sighs blissfully, roots around beneath the cover with one foot until Rodney's ready to smack him about the ear, then pulls out a pair of boxers – his? maybe – and sloppily wipes up the mess on Rodney's belly. "Y'not really grumpy," John mumbles, and stretches out beside him, smug and satisfied, and Rodney can't help but palm his spine.

"I am too a grump," he says, feeling as if he has to defend himself.

John snuffles a hot breath of laughter into Rodney's collarbone. "Ooookay."

"Yes," Rodney tells him, "so long as you know I'm right." His telepathic abilities, undimmed by afterglow, allow him to sense John's eyeroll. "For that you're getting coffee and rolls," Rodney says, "and don't even think about flirting with that baker. I _know_ she's got her . . . her beady little eye on you." It's true, she does, and why wouldn't she? But – Rodney's heart stutter-steps at the thought – John's sweaty, lazy self is draped all along _his_ side, swathes of damp skin for Rodney to touch and stroke and to tell himself is _his_. "Okay," Rodney says aloud, _okay, okay, okay_, in time with his slow, slow strokes over John's warm back, because he's okay, they're okay, and the way John's going happily boneless against him is more than okay.

* * *

By the time John rolls out of bed and presses a kiss to Rodney's temple, a scratchy benediction of stubble, the sun's rising in the sky. While Rodney stretches out against their rumpled sheets, he looks out the window and sees the pale glow that's just starting to drive away rain and fog; from downstairs, he can hear the muffled sounds of John greeting Cash and Planck, the clatter of the coffee pot being readied; and Rodney breathes out slowly and feels lit up, lit up, lit up.


End file.
